


Savoureux

by KellCavs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Therapy, description of hannibal's office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:59:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellCavs/pseuds/KellCavs
Summary: You are waiting for him. You examine his office much as he examines you. What does it reveal about the character of Hannibal Lecter?





	

The office is dim; what little light that filters through the curtains is not enough. The space is simply too vast to fully brighten. Bookshelves line the walls, full of authors whose names you cannot pronounce. You don’t even need to look at them to know that. Two chairs sit in the middle of the room, the matte leather dark and enticing. The cushions on what is usually your chair are still sunken in from their previous occupant, yet his are perfect. You scowl, angered by this detail, and move your gaze across the room. A desk made of dark wood sits near the right side of the office and a gold lamp is positioned on the corner for a reason only the owner knows. An ornate trinket box sits near the front, its gold embellishments swirling in what seems like no particular order as they ran all over the box’s surface. You never wondered about the contents. Even if you did ask, he’d never tell you. For a moment, the thought crosses your mind to open them. If you were to touch them, he would know, and he would not be happy with you. Some things are better left unseen and you let it alone.   
As you wander over to the fireplace, the smell of smoke lingers heavy in the air though it seems no fire was recently lit there. You smell his cologne mingled with an undeniable scent of old leather and aging pages. You run yours fingers over the engraved designs that frame the fireplace, taking in the smooth feeling of heavy, thick molding. No fire is lit today, and the heady scent and gloom that sits in the office stifles your lungs. On the mantel are more items, heavy and old and brassy. It took a minute as you pondered on a display case filled with scalpels for you to realize what they were. These were antique tools of torture used by barbaric doctors who claimed that they were helping their patients. Your head begins to pound as you think about those who were once under those knives. You move your eyes from the scalpels and up to a bone saw with a perfect patina displayed above it like a hunting trophy. Anatomical sculptures of a human hand and a strikingly realistic human skull decorate the otherwise empty space on the mantel - you push the nagging thought of their acquisition from your mind.   
Disgusted, you turn from the fireplace and move on to the beverage cart near the window. Of course there’s a beverage cart, you think, there’s always a beverage cart. He always offer you a drink, and you always decline. Amber liquids in glass bottles, just like the items on the desk, sit in a way you could not replicate. Two glasses, upside down, are beside the ice bucket. You turn your gaze to the painting on the wall, an old portrait of two lovers, twisting towards each other, separated by a field of darkness on the canvas. You smirk, knowing what he thinks of it, and what he wants you to think of it. You push that thought from your mind and continue on.   
A movable ladder stands in your way, begging you to climb to the loft upstairs. Nothing waits for you in the shadows, nothing lurks, waiting to pounce. Nothing ever has or ever will. You know this, but the thought still nags at you. Your footsteps echo through the room, magnifying each thud of your shoes off the walls and furniture. You always find it odd that the noises you make aren’t absorbed into the books or cushions on the chairs. You always mean to ask, but never do. The silence that appears when you stand still is deafening. You feel like someone is watching you. You look around for the source of the discomfort and see an anatomical skeleton in the corner, grinning wildly at you. It doesn’t frighten you anymore like it did the first time you were sent here for help with your mental condition. You’ve also stopped wondering if it’s real or not. It would honestly surprise you if you found out it were fake.   
The door softly clicks shut behind you. What little light that is in the room seems to shrink back when he enters. He approaches you, though his footsteps don’t seem to echo quite like yours do. They sound hollow and empty.   
"Will," says a soft voice, cold, yet comforting, "Are you ready to begin?"  
You are never ready.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for an assignment for my creative writing class. We had to write a descriptive paragraph on a person or place - I decided to do both. The place is a reflection of the person within.


End file.
